


Ephemera

by pyrrhic_victoly



Series: Ephemera [1]
Category: Kyou Kara Maou
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mental Breakdown, Not Happy, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2010-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:32:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhic_victoly/pseuds/pyrrhic_victoly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Mazoku, whose lives were like slow burning candles, watching humans flash by like fireworks was both painful and beautiful.  Lord von Voltaire gazes upon the bright future that their very Human king had strived for, and remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ephemera

Lord von Voltaire had had a full life. He had seen many things and known many people, some of whom would unquestionably grace the textbooks for generations to come. Indeed, the chronicles of many of these great men and women, human and Mazoku alike, sovereigns and commoners alike, had already been carefully recorded by his friend, the scholarly Lord von Kleist.

It was the large tome he held in his hands right now that brought him back to those days. There, in Gunter's elegant script, was the culmination of years of tears and ink-stained hands. It was the life and times of the 27th King of Shin Makoku, and it began, unlike Lord von Kleist's customary flowing prose, with simplicity.

_The Mazoku on Earth have normal human life spans._

Gwendal had ignored such statements when he first heard them. He had known that they were true, but he had not wanted to think on such morbid things. Most of the citizens of Shin Makoku had ignored them as well. After all, King Yuuri was the most popular sovereign since Shinou himself, and they did not want it to be true. They willed it not to be true, as if denial could shift the very fabric of reality.

It had very nearly undone all that Yuuri had fought for.

When his subjects first noticed that Yuuri was aging far too fast, literally dying before their eyes, they had balked. They had cursed his human mother, and laid all the blame on her. They forgot to consider the fact that their beloved king's claim to the throne came solely from his Mazoku soul, and not from his barely-there Mazoku heritage.

They did not consider the fact that his supposedly Mazoku father was also quite human, or that the Shibuya family had been marrying humans for many generations before Shouma, or that the Earth branch of the von Wincotts had been marrying humans for many generations before they became part of the Shibuya line.

There had only ever been one full-blooded Mazoku to make Earth his home. All those on Earth who considered themselves Mazoku would, in Shin Makoku, not even have the right to lay claim to that part of their heritage, so diluted was their blood. They were not even half-bloods; not even close. People with more Mazoku heritage than those on Earth could be found in greater numbers in any country of this world. For the most part, the Mazoku of Earth were only Mazoku in name. First and foremost, they were Human.

Mazoku prejudice against humans had not always been hatred. In the beginning, it had been fear, and it was this fear which lingered now.

It was to protect themselves from these painful feelings that the early Mazoku shunned contact with those mayflies known as humans. The rare few who still clung to ideals of blood purity did not like to admit that most modern Mazoku did indeed have diluted human blood flowing in their veins. The ancestors of the modern Mazoku, the green-skinned race of demons known as the Healers and the ethereal Lake Tribe, lived even longer.

Most of the Healers had long since bred out into modern Mazoku, but the Lake Tribe still kept themselves pure through seclusion. The difference in life span was most painful for those of the Lake Tribe, purest of the pureblood Mazoku, with their unearthly violet eyes and porcelain white skin. Ulrike, now nearing a millennium old, still retained her youthful appearance, as did her predecessor, Ondine, of whom no one knew the age. Immortality, or near-immortality, was their curse to bear.

It was no surprise, then, to know that most members of the Lake Tribe had learned their lessons and shut themselves away in their secluded forest sanctuary. If they met no short-lived Mazoku, or even shorter-lived humans, then they would not risk coming to love such ephemeral creatures, for the only possible outcome of such an affair was bitter heartbreak.

 

 

He remembered.

Yuuri, frail and bedridden. Hair once the richest black now white as snow. The king had someone watching him at all times. The healers had insisted that he could go at any minute, and a loved one ought to be there for him, so they took shifts.

When it was Gwendal's turn, he would sit beside the man he had come to deeply respect. In his own quiet way, Gwendal doted upon Yuuri as if the king were yet another younger brother for him to protect. He knit animals for Yuuri as they talked of politics and current issues. At times, he even read to him, hoping that his deep, rumbling voice would soothe the king to sleep.

One day in particular stood out in his memory.

Wolfram's shift had ended and the youngest brother trudged out of Yuuri's room, rubbing at his temples.

"Headaches again, Wolfram? I'll give you some of my remedies."

"Ah, thank you, brother."

Then Wolfram had returned to his work as Regent, and Gwendal had been by Yuuri's bedside for a few hours, concentrating intently on finishing the stuffed bearbee in his arms. The ill king, wheezing lightly, had turned his head to regard Gwendal's work. He smiled, then, a mischievous smile that reminded Gwendal of years gone by, and poked Gwendal in the forehead.

"You have a new wrinkle," Yuuri said.

Gwendal was too shocked to respond, but had eventually chuckled and teased back. "Speak for yourself."

Yuuri grinned even wider, and settled back down to rest, contented. With his newest creation finished, Gwendal set it by Yuuri's side, whereupon the younger man had asked, "Is it a bearbee?"

And Gwendal had nearly dropped his needles. When he recovered from the second momentary shock, he grunted an affirmative and clasped Yuuri's hand in reassurance before leaving the room.

Conrart had the night shift, and the soldier would bring in dinner as Gwendal left. Sometimes, Gwendal would sigh as the door closed, and, leaning against the wall, allow himself a small moment of bone-deep weariness. Then he would hear laughter coming from the king's chambers, and all would be as it should. Yuuri was laughing about baseball, and the world made sense again.

That night, Conrart came right on time, as he always did, but there was no laughter. Gwendal returned to his own rooms, but was unable to sleep. He surreptitiously checked back at Yuuri's chambers throughout the night, at times hearing softly mumbled words from within, but never daring to enter.

He couldn't shake the nagging feeling, and so again returned at dawn. Gunter was there as well, prepared for his early morning shift. They nodded to each other in the understanding way of old friends and waited for Conrart to open the door.

Still, to this day, Gwendal could recall with perfect clarity Gunter's heartwrenching scream.

Gwendal had not been privy to Conrart and Yuuri's conversation, but when his brother came out of the chamber at dawn, twelve hours after he went in, Conrart was clinging to that damnable blue stone, which had again returned to his possession.

 

 

Yuuri's passing pained them all, and the nation was thrown into mourning. However, they remembered Yuuri, his exuberance, his good cheer, and his endless love. Yuuri was not perfect – he would have wanted a little bit of mourning from the people to show that they cared, but more than that, he would have wanted them to honor his memory by getting on with their lives and continuing to fight the good fight, for peace and equality for all.

That was exactly what they did. Under the rule of Wolfram von Bielefelt, 28th King of Shin Makoku, the nation's wounds began to heal. It was Wolfram who had proven to have the greatest emotional strength of all of them. Wolfram and his sharp attitude pushed and shoved his people out of their self-absorbed misery. He could not be their Sun, as Yuuri had been, but he could light the way with his own brand of passion.

For Gwendal, however, he was haunted by the memory of a young Shibuya Yuuri. Forever fifteen years old, wide-eyed and exuberant, Yuuri ran through the halls of Blood Pledge Castle, catching his eye when he least expected it. He would turn a corner, and Yuuri would be there, being pulled along by Wolfram, or clutching a worn baseball as he pulled 'Conrad', as he liked to call Conrart, out to the courtyard for a game of catch.

Gwendal might have thought himself mad, but Conrart saw these images, too. His brother would stop and smile off into the distance at the oddest moments. Although the soldier tried to remain strong in the public eye, there were nights when Conrart spent hours outside doing nothing but tossing a ball to himself, talking to himself, asking himself if the Red Sox had won the World Series, and how would Yuuri like to return to Earth to see the next game?

At first, he and Wolfram had desperately tried to talk some sense into Conrart, had told him that there was no use mourning like this, since it only served to hurt his brothers, had told him that Yuuri would have wanted him to be happy... And it had all amounted to nothing but that infuriatingly empty smile. It was as if their brother had lost some essential spark that made him Conrart. It was as if he had lost his soul.

"But I am happy," Conrart told them both on multiple occasions. However, to Wolfram, though Gwendal had not meant to overhear, he had whispered, "Don't tell Gwendal because he'll worry, but I'd like to be selfish just this once."

All the while, Conrart laughed and he smiled. Smiled. Smiled. Smiled. Some nights he would even sing, and those were the times Gwendal would slowly approach his brother and hold him, comforting him as he had never done since they were children, but even still, Conrart never stopped smiling gently into the sky as his voice rang out to the stars. _Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go._

It soon became common knowledge that Lord Weller had quietly gone mad with grief. Gwendal got used to the rumors, though he defended Conrart at every turn. He even got used to these ghostly images of Yuuri over the years, but they never failed to make his heart twinge just a bit.

What truly broke his heart was when, much too soon after the loss of his king, he looked at his half-human brother and once again saw Dan Hiri Weller as he had truly appeared. It was during a formal dinner party when he realized it. Again, too late. Gwendal immediately shoved up from his seat and excused himself. He ran from the banquet hall with a hand clasped over his mouth, and was sick.

In his room, he sank to his knees before the bed with his hands over his face to hide the shame and the pain. He cried that night, for the first time in his adult life. How could it be that he would outlive both father and son?

In his old age, Gwendal finally admitted to himself that he had loved Dan Hiri Weller. He had hated him because he loved him. Dan Hiri was Gwendal's role model, the perfect man he aspired to be, and the only father figure he had ever known. As a young man, he had been so jealous of Conrart because he had wanted so badly to call that man his father. To know that such a man was human was too much to bear. He shoved his step-father away so that he would not be hurt when the man inevitably passed away, but things hadn't gone as planned.

And now his brother, too? Gwendal had felt it before, the sense that he was losing Conrart. When he had heard his brother's foolish request to be sent out on the front lines at Rutenberg, to march to his death just to prove that his life had worth, he had panicked. He had wanted to refuse, but he had been on another battlefield, and even if he had been back at the castle, he was only a junior member of the Ten Nobles at the time, and it would not have been his decision to make.

Even then, things had not been as frightening because Gwendal knew, deep in his heart, that Conrart's unparalleled skill with the sword would not fail him. And when Conrart had lost his arm years later, there had been the slim chance of survival, or, barring that, at least the comforting knowledge that he had fought like a great hero to the very end. And when Conrart had begun his slow descent into madness, there had been the thought that he would one day recover, because wasn't it said that time heals all wounds?

There had been time. For Gwendal, yes, but as he sat beside Conrart and knitted a little stuffed lion, he finally admitted that Time was Conrart's enemy. There had never been a man whom Conrart was afraid to face. The Lion had never backed down.

Aging, however, was not something that could be defeated with steel; it wasn't even something that could be fought in a way that they, being career soldiers, could understand.

As humble Conrart liked to say, "There is always someone stronger than you." It was true, Gwendal thought, because though Shin Makoku's best swordsman had yet to be defeated in a duel, there was still that last opponent. Like his father before him, Conrart soon fell to the merciless blades of time.

And as with Yuuri, there was a ghost in Gwendal's heart. This one, however, was never seen, but only heard. When that flickering phantom Yuuri would dance through the halls, it was now accompanied with a haunting melody in Conrart's voice.

_I'll be yours through all the years, 'til the end of time._

 

 

Gwendal put down the book and sat still in his office, looking out the window onto the scene below. He quietly observed his youngest brother, who was all the family he had left, now. Or perhaps… not quite. A flock of small children, Greta's descendants, burst out from the bushes and tackled their great-grandfather who, except for the crow's feet around his eyes, still looked to be in his prime. Wolfram was surrounded by life, and Gwendal smiled, turning his attention back to his documents.

After writing a few lines, he found that he couldn't concentrate today. His mind still drifted to the past. On his desk was a 'photograph'. It was a gift from Yuuri, which the Maou had gotten a guard to take with a strange Earth contraption.

They were all there and smiling. Even Gwendal himself had his lips slightly quirked up. He gently stroked the frame.

Like the smoky wisps of dreams, like snowflakes melting at a touch, the lingering scent from a wilted flower, the morning dew which is gone by the time the sun rises; like the mayfly, whose life is but beautiful ephemera, Gwendal cherished the lives of his companions in faded memory.


End file.
